


dissonance isn't good when you're playing the accompaniment

by A_Blu_Jay



Series: multicolored (aren't we all grey?) [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Catharsis, Character Study, Floris | Fundy Angst, Floris | Fundy Deserves Better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:22:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28749942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Blu_Jay/pseuds/A_Blu_Jay
Summary: He has the truth laid out in front of him, painting a cruel picture, a sight of neon colors, ugly in the way war is. Bright and loud and cruel in the way complete and utter honesty is.There is a country and he is that country and that country is him and he hates everyone and everything. Hates those memories of warm hands and soft notes on piano and the sharp sounds of guitar strings being plucked too hard.
Series: multicolored (aren't we all grey?) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2127108
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	dissonance isn't good when you're playing the accompaniment

**Author's Note:**

> I am very Pog and Swag
> 
> First I'd like 2 say- this is absolutely not edited at all, it's 2am and i just finished writin
> 
> second- it is very important to me to note that the google doc for this is titled "SWEET SWEET FOX ANGST"

He has memories of warm hands on his head, a happy smiling face crouched in front of him, babied words running into his ears and to his brain. Of music and songs being sung out in beautiful notes like the song of a siren.

Very very distant memories. Insignificant in the long con of the Universe and it's vast ever present void. The warmth of them barely there like the last embers of a put out fire.

He can remember every chord. Every note played out on the piano. 

  
  
  


He has the truth laid out in front of him, painting a cruel picture, a sight of neon colors, ugly in the way war is. Bright and loud and cruel in the way complete and utter honesty is. 

There is a country and he is that country and that country is him and he hates everyone and everything. Hates those memories of warm hands and soft notes on piano and the sharp sounds of guitar strings being plucked too hard. 

  
  
  


Some days he wants to watch it burn.

Some days he wants to hold it tight to his chest where he can protect it.

Some days he just wants to lie down and stop thinking.

Some days he doesn't know what he wants and what he needs and everything scrambles in his brain like a symphony being played in the wrong key.

  
  


Sometimes he just wants the burning in his body, his chest, his heart and lungs to stop.

And sometimes he wants to take that burning inside of him and burn the stupid fucking country to the ground.

  
  
  


There's ash on his tongue, watching The President drive a sword through the frail form of a cat. It threatens to choke him at every point he swallows.

There's soot and smoke in his mouth from the burning rage in his throat when he sees them together. Discs and guitar clutched in 3 different pairs of hands. 

  
  
  


There's bright colors flashing, burning and searing into his eyes. The tall looming figure of a god so so so terrifying, taking out the three figures up on the podium in bursts of bright colors, blood mixing and blending in with the festive colors far too easily.

There's bright colors searing into his hair and fur and skin and teeth mixing with his blood when that figure turns, hysteric in such a terrifying way. 

_ Hiccup like laughter and the booms of fireworks echo in his ears for days after. _

He hates the fact that he feels glee for a few fleeting moments, that he's lost a life, that the right hand man has lost a few fingers. ( _ He's barely 17 he's barely 17 he's barely 17 he shouldn't lose a life this early he _ \- repeats like a mantra in his head over and over like a song that doesn't end. It's maddening. It's terrifying. It's exhilarating.)

  
  
  


He can't help the fear gripping his hands like a frightened toddler (or is he the one that's the toddler?). The revolution is coming and everything will crash and burn because he can feel it. The Universe knows it so he knows it because the Universe is dark and it is light and he is dark and he is light, and everything will come crashing down in sparkles of bright colors just like the Festival.

  
  
  


The god has plans and has planned and he couldn't lie, not even to himself, and say that he wasn't mesmerized by it all. The hours upon hours poured into every material, every armour stand and every weapon. It took his lungs into a vice grip, squeezing the air out of them.

  
  
  


And by god they've finally done it. The President (ex-president?) is gone. He's gone but in such a way where it doesn't feel like a victory. No glory, no satisfaction from the hunger for the war that has now been won. 

Just a stroke. And the ramblings of a sick, mad man. It leaves him with a gaping hole in his gut, letting his guts fall and slip out in some disgusting game of operation. He hates it.

He hates the feeling that’s now filling that hole in his gut even more. The right hand man and his best friend ( _ what was it like having a best friend? _ ) stand up on the podium. Tear tracks running down soft, young cheeks and bright wide smiles and bodies full of hope.

  
  
  


Hope is a fickle thing, he realizes.

Terror is not. It grabs one by the arms and the chest and the legs and holds on like a constrictor squeezing the life out of its prey. It's hard and soft and cold and warm and everything everywhere.

Everything is shaking and rumbling and he has to cover his ears for the sound all around him is far too loud. His eyes sting from the smog and dust in the air. Long pupils gazing upon destruction and ruin through scrunched eyelids.

Past memories of warm hands turn into fresh memories of soot and blood stained hands. A once happy face morphing into one of madness and paranoia and grief and release and so much it makes him want to vomit right then and there.

Terror is like steel. Piercing and hard and sharp. And steel is like terror, plunging into the heart and draining it of everything except for pure unfiltered adrenaline.

The country is an unfinished symphony and he's doomed to forever have it playing in his blood and his heart. Like a parasite leeching him of everything that is him and not the country even though they are one and the same in a sick cruel way.

He has the unfinished symphony of a mad, paranoid man in his blood and DNA and that fact makes him want to cry. To sob like a child even though he's done with being seen and treated as one.

  
  
  


He never wants to think about Minotaurs or City States or a man named Theseus again. Wants to take a bucket of lava to his brain and brand it from his memory. Wants to erase the scars on his skin from that living poison that withers away at everything that is not itself.

  
  
  


He watches them rebuild. He ignores the nightmares of warm hands now cold and bloodied of paranoid crazy eyes and of red sticks of TNT planted beneath his feet that'll eventually blow him to tiny little itty bitty pieces that'll return him to the Universe.

He finds comfort in the king, dark shades and a sharp facial structure never taunting in the old sickly sweet manner he's used to seeing on faces. He takes time to build and grow and explore and love and create and do all the things the Universe created for him to do. 

  
  
  


They’re rebuilding the country, he helps. Brick by brick, plank by plank, deep trenches turn into a city. It’s beautiful, in the way kintsugi is. The city is the gold filling in the cracks that are the trenches and the rushing water and the rotting plant life withering away in patches.

The new president helps. Lends a frail, scarred hand, the frailness hiding hard as steel determination. 

  
  
  


He decides to build a house, and then builds a penthouse over a house in front of his own in a silly, meaningless feud.

It’s quiet, for once. He’s not used to it. Or maybe he is.

  
  
  
  


The auction is a quiet affair and he hides trepidation behind a sly grin when there’s only one person who bothers to come. Wide black wings and blue eyes dance around the penthouse. Frosted eyes dragging over wooden planks, a polar bear, a grass block, a glowing golden shovel.

It’s quiet. Like it had been before there was a revolution, before there was a god and before there was paranoid men with chords and notes running through their brain. It’s a different type of quiet, one that comes with the new president who doesn’t even fill in his suit. 

He thinks, maybe, the time under a tyrannical president was less quiet and more  _ silent _ . The imposing figure on top of the podium taking up space with an overbearing shadow like a boogeyman. 

It’s freeing. Being able to do whatever he wants without the threat of being correctly labeled as a spy. Freeing in a way he’s never experienced. It doesn’t last.

  
  
  


The last direct connection he has to past warm hands and a smiling face and sickly soft words is gone. Exiled. He watches him be dragged away, green words digging into the boy president's brain through his ear, green and black clad hands digging into shoulders and pulling them down an imposing obsidian wall.

He watches from the penthouse, through large windows flung open, curtains billowing around in the wind. Between the trills of birds and ambient overworld noise taking up the space in his brain he can’t help the thought that oozes and pushes them out of the way.

Maybe the god was right. Maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe the country should’ve been blown away by the fleeting breath of a dead man. And maybe that’s a cruel thought, he doesn’t know.

  
  
  


The king, dark shades, milky eyes, shining crown doesn’t show up. He can’t stop those oozing ideas from solidifying into something as hard as bedrock. The king doesn’t show up; he's left with that familiar gaping pit. The familiar feeling of his heart dropping out of his body through his stomach right next to his liver  _ his kidney his small intestine- _

  
  
  


The feeling reminds him of a time where the only thing there was, was cold, slippery hands and red scales. Of the slimy feeling that covered his body like a second skin when he realized  _ this wasn’t the body he wanted _ .

The feeling reminds him of red sticks of TNT and trenches beneath gold cities.

  
  


He watches fish swim by, gliding through the water and down the stream. A ball of red and white bobbing on the surface of the water. Reeling back the line he’s careful of the dark, almost jet black purple wings stretched out behind him as he casts it out once more.

It’s almost enough to let him forget. Let him pretend that there wasn't paranoia and symphonies in his bloodline. Let him pretend that for a moment the man at his side with the wings such a dark purple they were almost jet black would care for him. Let him pretend that a king or queen or ruler with dark shades and milky white eyes would want him.

The ugly feeling is back. And it ghosts along the top of the water, moves with the swaying of the grass in the wind.

Dead men should stay dead. Bad fathers should never be fathers.

  
  
  


The other reminds him of a dice. Black and white. Always a toss up and game of anxiety over what would happen next around them. One had six faces and the other is split up in a war with itself. He doesn’t mind when the shop falls flat. He doesn’t mind that they’ve banned him from the shop.

Through it all he can’t help but think about the bonds starting to forge between him and the girl with steel in her knuckles and spine.

  
  
  


And maybe it’s that old ugly feeling that makes him do it. Gives him the guts and confidence to put a god or two on a hit list. Gives him the hubris to put the posters and signs up.

  
  


He doesn’t think he could ever regret forming Dry Waters alongside the girl with steel in her knuckles and spine.

  
  


Their plans were simple and he couldn’t help but be there for every step. Tearing the glowing compass from the man with wings and frosty eyes was easy. The fleeting  _ I still love you _ burned his throat and branded his tongue. Following the direction the needle pointed was easy. 

Killing a god wasn’t.

Maybe his hubris was the reason for such childish ambition. Maybe the ugly feeling that’d long since taken over the flames in the throat was the reason why everything was doomed to fail from the very beginning. 

Thick, ugly scars decorate his neck, parting the sea of fur there. Scars that reached desperately for one side of his throat from the other. Maybe this was the cost for ambition and hubris.

It felt unfair, in a stupid, childish way. But wasn’t that what he was? For only children think they can kill a god. And only children let ambition get in the way of reality.

It felt unfair. The look shining in those frosted globes like a reflection on ice. Cold, cold and unwavering. He wanted to scream. He was important, he mattered, why couldn’t he be cared for as much as the god was. 

He watched the brown mound be thrown out the window. 

  
  
  


The god was back with the exiled. He felt hysteric, mad, crazy, insane, whatever. They demanded a return of stolen items. Dangerous items that had no right being so dangerous. No right being in the hands of someone so powerful.

He wanted to be that powerful.

The Lake of Tears mocked that thought.

  
  
  


And maybe at the end of the story he could’ve done something different. Maybe at the end of the story he still felt good. Maybe at the end of story he wouldn't have teamed up with the girl with steel in her knuckles and spine and helped raze everything to the ground.

He didn’t regret it. Warm hands were now cold and clammy. Smiling faces were now wide with a sick mixture of sorrow and innocence. Consonant chords turned dissonant. Major turned to minor. 

Cool, slippery hands left. Red scales disappeared down a stream.

He couldn’t get himself to regret the part he played in the destruction that resonated around him. A homophonic piece where he played the accompaniment and the gods played the melody. 

Grass and building and stone and people wither away around him. A sly foxy smile widens on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the ending but decided to take it out because I liked the vibe it ended with from the other line better:
> 
> Maybe once it’s all over he can look to the Universe and it will look back. Maybe he can finally say _look, are you proud of me. I am the dark, I am the light. And I have played the game well._
> 
> Ever since I learned abt the whole fundy and astral projectin thing i couldnt NOT put in bits and references from the end credits when you beat the game. It's such a gut wrenching and raw thing to read too like holy fuck Mojang did not have to go as hard as they did
> 
> ty for readin ! this was honestly just my midnight ramblings because i have a lotta Thoughts abt the Dream Smp


End file.
